


The Taste of Crime

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Choking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 07:17:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3125750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Javert meets Montparnasse and Gueulemer, Javert is on his knees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste of Crime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/gifts).



> Thank you so much to MissM for the beta!

Javert swirled his tongue around the prick that was prodding at his lips. A relieved sound almost escaped him at the taste before the owner of that prick forced it into his mouth, and now he moaned throatily in delight around it, his mouth pleasantly full in the way he would have denied enjoying right up until the moment that it happened.

In these moments, he was not Javert. He was on his knees; there was a blindfold covering his eyes, and the man who currently did his best to choke him with his cock had no name, just as Javert was nameless here.

These things did not really happen, or at least, they did not happen to Javert. It was a nameless man, one of many, who suffered on his knees here in the backroom of a dirty inn, as many others had done and would do, and Javert would not think of that man once he returned to his room, or when he patrolled the streets of Paris.

No, right now, kneeling here, he had no name, and what he did would be forgotten soon enough. And so Javert moaned hoarsely as the man used his mouth, and he hollowed his cheeks and sucked with devoted eagerness, uncaring of the way his own spit stained his chin, or the way his own prick ached hot and hard in his trousers. 

The man in front of him was breathing heavily. There was a soft curse; a hand tightened in his hair to hold him in place while that cock was shoved even deeper into his mouth Javert choking gratefully around him – and then someone stepped behind him, and a slender, elegant hand curved around his throat. 

Javert groaned in protest when the man's prick pulled out just as the first eruption of bitter spend hit his tongue. Then the hand tightened around his throat, and he couldn't breathe; his heartbeat thundered in his ears with the same pulse as the blood had throbbed painfully between his legs. He gasped for air. The slender hand tightened even more, and there was the wet, warm rush of the man's spend spilling all over his face, a few spurts released into his open mouth so that even while he was shuddering and choking with the need for air, he helplessly tried to lean forward to catch more of it.

Instead, he was drawn back against a slim body. There was the sound of laughter breathed against his ear as the man’s other hand slid downwards – did it stop briefly at his pocket, or had he imagined that? But now there were sparks of light dancing in front of his eyes, his pulse loud and strangely sluggish as it reverberated in his ear like the lazy tolling of a bell, while a skilled hand pressed against the hard shape of his prick.

“Oh, I think he likes that, Gueulemer.” The voice sounded young, Javert noted even as he was choking. It was an affected drawl full of disdain, and his prick gave another throb of need. Javert felt absurdly grateful for the fact that here, he had no name and no identity, and it did not matter at all how much his prick ached and strained in his trousers while the youth kept his hand tightened around his throat.

“The dog would be happy to suck you too, but I think his mouth is too ugly for your refined tastes,” Javert heard. Then the hand in his hair let go at last. He reeled, lightheaded, still without air, still so hard that all he could see were pulsing glimmers of red in the darkness behind his eyes. Then the blindfold was ripped off, and he convulsed, struggling for a breath that was not granted as his body contracted in an excruciating release that did not seem to end while he floated away in the red-stained darkness.

“The devil-- that's Javert, Gueulemer! They've let a copper in!”

The youth's voice was shrill now, and somewhere in the back of Javert's mind, a tingle of alarm began to sound, but his limbs were so heavy, and he still could not breathe...

He struggled slowly, realizing belatedly that something was wrong, but the youth's fingers dug in and he choked, staring up at the hazy figure before him.

“Don't kill a fucking copper in here, Montparnasse!” the man hissed. His large, meaty hands joined the youth's slender fingers, and Javert wanted to moan with dread and helpless, shameful delight at the way he was squeezed between their bodies.

Then everything was silent. Only after some long minutes of wheezing for breath did he realize that he had been left on the dirty floor of the backroom, and that the two men had fled. 

Javert rolled over onto his back, every bone in his body aching. He raised a hand to his bruised throat, wrapped his fingers lightly around where the fingers of the youth had rested. His trousers were stained with his release, and he shuddered with disgust. 

He coughed. His throat was sore; his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth that was still filled with the bitter taste of a criminal's spend. 

He had come here as a man without name. Now, once more, he was Javert, and worse – he was Javert to _them_. Javert, who had opened his mouth obediently for a stranger's cock. Javert, who had not even struggled when a stranger had wrapped his hand around his throat, but had found an obscene pleasure in the act.

He coughed again, lightly rubbing his aching throat. Dog, they had called him, but he still remembered their names: Gueulemer. Montparnasse. 

He rubbed his throat again, and imagined a slender, smoother neck, and his own large hand around it, and then thought of the way that pretty voice had spoken his name with fear.

Dog, they had called him. Well, they were not wrong, he thought as he slowly pushed himself up, his limbs weak and wobbly. He was a dog. But now he had their scent. And he had never lost a trail.


End file.
